


Soul's Home

by I_Gave_You_Fair_Warning



Series: Symbiont Circle [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Cuddling, Gen, Masochism, Non-Sexual Kink, Non-Sexual Submission, Other, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 22:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Gave_You_Fair_Warning/pseuds/I_Gave_You_Fair_Warning
Summary: Nearly a year after the events of Munch for Three, Padmé, Satine, and Obi-Wan are fully settled in their own normal.It's been a rough day for Padmé, her efforts to try to bring sanity to the Senate not seeming to have any effect, and the looming threat of a war seeming ever more possible.It's time to let all of those worries fade away against the sane, gentle present of an evening with her play partners.





	Soul's Home

**Author's Note:**

> The events of Munch for Three were followed by several other meetings where each explored what they themselves wanted, as well as what the others would like. They worked on a script, discovered where they each drew their no-go lines, and embarked on their first scene. Afterwards they cuddled and discussed their immediate reactions, and a week later, they met again in a non-play situation to discuss it after having had time to consider their responses.
> 
> Is any of that actually written in story form? No. But these three have played several times since then, adjusting things to better suit them all. The story you're about to read takes place a couple months before Attack of the Clones.

 

The guards recognized Padmé as she approached, opening the door for her in silent welcome.

Padmé didn't know how much they knew, and wasn't sure she cared. Satine trusted them.

And Padmé trusted Satine's vetting process.

Within the cool, dark hall, Padmé's footsteps quickened, her heart beginning to pound in her chest.

Soon.

So soon.

At the end of the hall she turned, pausing before a door that looked like all the others.

She waited just a beat to savor the moment, then keyed the door. It opened, revealing a room with a warm red carpet, furniture of the same wine color, a lounging couch with beautiful matching drapery, and a Duchess, clothed in a black flowing dress, standing in the center.

The door closed behind Padmé, locking out all of the worries of the past, present, and future.

Padmé crossed the soft floor to stand before Satine in silence.

The Duchess studied her face for a long, piercing moment, and then her hand came up to lightly cup the side of Padmé's cheek.

The Senator's fingers lightly wrapped around Satine's wrist, a gentle, caressing movement.

“Our knight cannot be present this evening,” Satine said, her voice calm, the gentle brush of her fingers her only greeting. “Are you here with me?”

“I am, my Lady,” Padmé replied in the formal words of acceptance, the tradition soothing to her aching heart.

The smile that lit Satine's eyes was warm. Safe. Powerful.

“Then we shall begin.” The Duchess stepped past her, and as she reached the doorway turned, and gone was her former affect.

Padmé felt her pulse skip a beat as she embraced their script.

“Tell me, what news?” Padmé asked, her voice trembling, both eager and afraid. Padmé knew what each of those sensations felt like, so she drew upon those memories to guide her expression and tone now.

Satine stared at her with a cool, professional gravity. “The scans show only continued deterioration,” she replied. “And we continue to fail in our attempts to fashion a cure. I would advise you to put your affairs in order.”  
Padmé's heart leaped into her throat. She saw a flicker in Satine's eyes in response, and it whispered safety and pleasure through Padmé's soul.

“Is there no hope, then?” Padmé whispered.

Satine took three measured steps closer, sending tingles of dread and enjoyable expectation alike through Padmé's limbs. “None whatsoever.”  
“How much time do I—” Padmé choked in a gasp, cutting off the end of the sentence, allowing her knees to go fluid, as if felled by a great pain.

Satine caught her, swept her to the couch, her movements full of the grace of a dancer.

Padmé convulsed, felt cool, strong hands holding her wrists down, felt, after a moment, two swift taps against her skin by a forefinger. The signal.

Allowing herself to slump boneless against the mattress, Padmé drew her eyes back down from where they'd been rolled up in her head, finding Satine's stern, worried expression.

“What is happening to me?” Padmé asked, breathless, _afraid._

“Death,” Satine breathed, and Padmé quivered at the word, exquisite in Satine's voice.

Padmé tried to sit up, but found she had not the strength. Gentle hands eased her back down as she lost momentum. “But I am not  _ready—_ ”

“You have no choice.”

Satine stood, turned to sweep away—

“ _Don't leave me,_ ” Padmé begged, her voice raw.

Satine paused, her head turning just a little so that Padmé could see only part of her face. “I have many patients to attend to.”  
“Do you not wonder who I  _am_ ?” Padmé pleaded. “Why I  _came_ to you?”

Satine arched her eyebrows. “Because I am the best.”  
Padmé shuddered.  _Oh, you certainly are._

But thoughts from reality were not what she sought, so she let it float on through and away, instead throwing belief and soul into her next words. “You do not know how long and tirelessly I have searched for you.”  
“ _Why_ ?” Satine asked, sounding suspicious now, turning with flashing eyes towards her. “Why would you seek me?”

“You were separated from your mother during the city's collapse long ago. Have you never wondered what happened to her or your sister?”

“ _Sister_ ?” Satine breathed, looking stunned, as if she dare not hope—

Padmé gave her a weak smile. “It is I.”

Satine let out a low moan and flew to her side, gathering Padmé's hands close between both of her own. “Must I meet you only to  _lose_ you?”

“As a stranger, you would have bid me meet death with courage,” Padmé whispered, the smile even more faint on her lips.

Satine drew her head up, determination taking over her face. “That is true.”

“Help me now,” Padmé pleaded. “I need your strength.”  
“And you shall have it,” Satine whispered, her fingers brushing hair back from Padmé's forehead, ghosting across her fevered brow, down her cheek.

Padmé thrashed once, twice, let out a mournful keen.

“Be still for me,” Satine commanded, lips close to her ear now.

Padmé shivered, and _that_ was not an act.

“You scorn to scream in pain.”

Padmé muffled her next cry in her throat, and Satine possessively stroked her forehead. “Brave, my sister. So brave.”  
“I cannot breathe,” Padmé whispered, pulse thundering like mad in her ears.

“I know.”

“I cannot see.”

“Soon, my sister. Soon. Just a little more courage.”  
A whimpered whine hissed through Padmé's throat, and Padmé felt her soul shiver as Satine murmured, “Shh,” a steady command for silence.

Padmé's lips fell apart to scream, but she let no sound emerge, the air escaping her lungs in a hushed, forceful breath—

She stared up into Satine's eyes for one desperate moment, and then she fell still against the couch, gaze fixed on a point on the wall behind Satine.

Fingers sought her pulse, not a sound to be heard but Satine's quiet, shuddered breathing as Padmé held her own breath—

And then fingers crossed her field of vision, touching just beneath her eyebrows. As they slowly and lightly slid downwards, Padmé let her eyelids fall shut in conjunction with them.

Satine lifted one of Padmé's limp hands, reverently placing it over her heart, then folded the second to join it. She gently pushed Padmé's opened jaw closed, then there was a rustle of fabric.

Satine gently straightened Padmé's legs, drawing her feet to the end of the couch.

And then the door opened.

Padmé's heart, easing down from its euphoric place, leaped again—

“I seek the Lady I am charged with protecting,” a voice spoke up, the words improvised, but the request to join in, even though he might be late, very clear.

It was all Padmé could do not to smile.

“She is here,” Satine replied. “Come and see.”

A firm footstep, and then Padmé knew he was beside her, looking down with a professional calm. She could see it in her minds' eye, half wished she could open her eyes now—

“When will she awaken?”

“Never again.”

A cool hand pressed against her forehead in silent benediction, and Padmé surrendered to it, to him.

“May her spirit watch over us from the flowers in the meadows, and the wind in the trees. Released at last, free to roam.”  
The closing words in Obi-Wan's voice drew Padmé's eyelids open again, and for one long, precious moment she watched him, his head bent, his eyes closed, his face both serene and sorrowful—

Such beauty, it stole her breath—

And then his eyes opened and met hers, and the act melted away into a smile.

He sat on the edge of the couch beside her, lightly brushing her disheveled hair back out of her face. He accepted a glass of water from Satine and held it out for Padmé to take.

“I'm glad you could make it,” Padmé admitted as he helped her sit up.

Though the assistance was not needed, both of her Dominants always took care to tend her like royalty after a scene, their gentle attentiveness something she'd come to look forward to and appreciate even as she reciprocated.

The intense emotional experience felt its best when framed with a tender expression of what each was worth to the others. Sometimes it took the form of words, but always it took the form of action.

For a few minutes, all that mattered to Padmé was Obi-Wan's and Satine's health and happiness.

And the same was true for them.

Padmé found Obi-Wan's arms easing her into a massive chair that made the Senator feel like a little girl again, curled in its depths, staring into the fire that lent a soft light to the room. She tucked her bare feet up onto the cushion, and leaned against Satine as the other woman sat on the chair's arm.

Obi-Wan sat on the floor, leaning his head back against Satine's leather boot, while Padmé lightly played with his hair.

“I'm concerned,” Padmé spoke up. “You are not a Sadist, Obi-Wan, so I am concerned that you are not getting as much out of this as we are. Watching me 'suffer' isn't an automatic win for you.”

Satine hummed a chuckle in her throat and passed a hand over Padmé's hair in a gentle caress.

“For me to leave behind the universe for a time, to feel your and Satine's full acceptance, to have no responsibility other than what has been laid out ahead of time— that alone is a comfort,” Obi-Wan murmured. “With Anakin, I never know what to expect, and I always wonder if I could have responded better, if perhaps I should have said something subtly— or greatly— different. Here? I know what to say. Instead of  _what_ being the factor, I can focus alone on presenting it in the best way I can. I know where we're going, I know how to get there, and all that matters is the journey.”  
Padmé nodded to herself as she pushed his hair out of place, then tucked it back where it belonged.

“It may not follow a rush of adrenaline and endorphins, but I certainly find solace and rest here, and I have always loved watching Satine be herself.”

“She's magnificent,” Padmé murmured, enjoying the unusual blush that touched Satine's cheek.

_I did that. So little can move her, but I can._

_We can._

Safe in that knowledge, Padmé snuggled deeper into the pillows as the gentle flow of exploring both the now-closed experience and soul continued.

 

 


End file.
